Not Understood
p. 74 · Read in the full issue
How niggers oft enrage us: Especially cooks—those stupid blinkin’ coots, Who iron things inside out, and earn their “wageus”
By ruinin’ everything; from hats to boots— Not understood.
Not understood. I yelled: “Hi cookee fetchem This razor-strop for sharp ’im razor Quick!”
He brings, in arf a mo (and I don’t stretch ’em), A blasted rusty file, a half-inch thick.
Not understood.
Not understood. I tried to make him “cotton”
That silk pyjamas must be ironed, well, A little damp, with iron not too hot, an’
He brings a pair in later, scorched t’ hell.
Not understood.
Not understood. I says. “Now ’old yer ’orses,”
When I meets ’im, racin’ in with both 'is mitts, Abalancin’ a tray of cups an’ saucers He grins; an’ trips; an’ whacks the lot t’ bits.
Not understood.
Not understood. By Hec. it’s sumfin’ awful, There’s ne’er a day goes by without its sore.
The langwidge wot I use is most un lawful, When I finds me whisky spilt upon the floor.
Not understood.
Not understood. ’Ell’s bells, I’m fit t’ slam ’im A snifter in the boko, fair an’ square, When ’e comes an’ stings me for ter baccer. Damn ’im!
And like a mug, I forks out then an’ there.
I guess it ain’t no wonder that I’m Not understood.